


How to Join the Mile High Club

by Army C (arh581958)



Series: #GallavichWeek [13]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Airplane Sex, Airplanes, Alternate Universe - Flight Attendants, Anal Fingering, Bottom!Mickey, Clothed Sex, Day 6 - Alternative First Meetings, Flight Attendants, FlightAttendant!Ian, GW2017A, Galalvich Week, Gallavich, Lavatory sex, Lube, M/M, Mile High Club, Top!Ian, alternative universe, rich!Mickey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-09 10:09:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11102337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arh581958/pseuds/Army%20C
Summary: Ian’s flown enough times to know this song and dance by heart.  As long as he’s serving business or first class, any flight is the perfect flight to get some attention. Ian just had to shake his ass a little bit.





	How to Join the Mile High Club

**Author's Note:**

> Written for GallavichWeek2017A Series. Day 6 - Alternative First Meetings
> 
> So... I'm days late. I am still intending to fill the last days even if I am late. At least, I can share stories with you, right? Life's kind of bothersome right now. This is a way to distract me from all the bad things happening. Okay, me, stop involving these good people in your drama.
> 
> Anyway, I recently flew to Europe (yay, me~) for a two-week short course in Prague. I couldn't help but imagine Gallavich on flights. Hey, flight attendants are hot, and Ian would make the hottest one. I wanted a rich!Mickey AU because he also needs some loving. Enjoy~
> 
> **Not Beta Read. Open for Volunteers.**

Ian’s flown enough times to know this song and dance by heart—smile a little here, linger a little bit there, and every so often pass through the aisles asking if they needed anything else. As long as he’s serving business or first class, any flight is the perfect flight to get some attention. He’s always had the type. Growing up in the Southside, he’s never had too many choices. Being a flight attendant changed all that. There’s always a rich older gentleman willing to look his way. Ian just had to shake his ass a little bit.

Today’s flight isn’t any different. It’s one of the longest domestic flights available: JFK to Honululu, which travelled for 11hrs and 38mins, assuming no delays. Not so perfect for the lone traveler wanting to escape the concrete jungle.

It’s slim pickings today. Not many people fly business class to Hawaii. Many that could afford the ticket for an island vacation can afford their own planes to get there. Lucky for Ian, he doesn’t need too many options. There’s one particular guy that’s caught his eye since boarding—the guy sitting in seat C1 with the deep blue eyes that rivalled the open skies.

“Hey,” says Ian, swinging by for the umpteenth time, “can I get you anything?”

The passenger glances up from the catalogue magazine that he’s reading, and smiles with his blindingly white teeth. His voice is something that Ian’s guilty of fantasizing about since he first heart it. “Yeah, uh, some of this…” he vaguely waves the assortment of liquor on the page, but then shakes his head with a heavy sigh. “Get me some wine—white—whatever sweet ya got on this thing.”

Damn. The guy’s voice got huskier with the flight. Ian has to momentarily hold the overhead storage bin for support. Now comes the dilemma.

Ian fidgets on his feet. “I’ll, uhm,” he starts slowly, “I may need to open a new bottle for that, sir. Nothing on the menu is sweet—at least not the sweet your looking for, I think.”

Blue-Eyes raises his eyebrow that speaks volumes of his humor. “Yeah, man, tch, whatever.” He motions towards the expensive-looking coat hanging behind his seat. “Black card’s in the right pocket. Charge it there, or whatever. Heck, keep it until we land. Don’t wanna keep gettin’ it.”

Ian plucked a sleek black credit card from the breast pocket. “This one, sir?” Maybe he leans slightly more than usual. None of the other cabin crew are here to see him being a tramp. And, so what if he is? He isn’t the least bit ashamed about it. It’s not like he charges them anymore. A tip here and there are gratuitous gifts but never asked.

“Yeah, sure, whatever, jus’ get me the juice, man” the guy answers without so much as looking up, busy tinkering with his phone.

Ian checks the name on the card—Mikhailo Aleksandr Milkovoch—and pretends it’s for security rather than his own personal interest. He can’t say that he isn’t disappointed at the dismissal. Half of him wants to send out Karen to see what reaction Mickey gets her. He does exactly that.

“Hey, Carmen,” he says, pulling out the expensive bottle of Moscato that they keep chilled. “Passenger in C1 wants this with a glass. You wanna take it for me?”

Carmen pops the contraband bubble gum she’s chewing on. Back here in the crew cabin, she’s literally got her hair down. The light chestnue locks fall loosely over her shoulder in large curls. It’s a stark contrast to their dark blue-grey uniform. She’s wearing her skirt an inch shorter than strictly mandated but still within the rules. Their very male cabin matron doesn’t seem to mind the least bit. She glances quickly between the slightly parted curtains.

“Huh,” she says, eyeing Ian questioningly. “I’d think you’d be all over that—he’s all all…” she trains off and mimes squeezing her arms, “buff and stuff. Look like’s he’s a little more grime underneath that suite and tie. You sure you’re giving him to me?”

Ian rolls his eyes. “I need you to test him,” he tells her, “I’m not sure if he’s get yet.” He does the rest of the prep for her—arranging the bottle in deep ice pail, and plucking a clean glass flute from inventory. It’s interesting, really, that the guy prefers something sweet—or maybe Ian’s just overthinking this.

“Hold that shit.” Carmen’s eyes grow wide. “The great Ian Gallagher’s gaydar isn’t working? Man, now I really got to check out this guy!” She hurriedly re-arranged her hair into a high ponytail and readjusted her mauve vest. “Alright, how do I look? No, no, wait. We need to make sure he’s an ass not boobs guy, right?” The one-unbuttoned lock on her top more noticeable by the uniform scarf around her neck. “How about now?”

“Hot,” Ian answers. “If only I were straight. I’d bang you in a heartbeat.” To emphasize, he forms a something resembling a heart-shape with his finger, then points toward her.

Carmen flutters her eyes. “Oh, Ian, with that heat you’re packing. I’m grateful that you _don’t_ want to. I do value being able to walk comfortably every time I fly you, know.”

“Har, har, funny, yeah,” Ian snorts, pushing the package at her. “Go, go, before the ice melts!”

“Hold it fucking together, Gallagher.” She throws over her shoulder before stepping out. Her walk is a smooth as silk when she saunters over to the guy in seat C1. The only other passenger is the woman in A3, and she’s fast asleep. Carmen easily reaches her goal.

Ian’s tense with anticipation as he watches from the shadows so very much _not_ like a creeper. He strains to hear the conversation. A soft _crick_ signals the wine bottle being opened. Another peek through the curtains showcase Carmen pouring wine into the flute, and using her double-Cs to full advantage. Mickey’s typing something in his phone using both hands and lets Carmen open the tray in his arm rest in order to put down the glass. Then, Carmen stomps her way back to the cabin.

“He didn’t even look at me!” She cried in frustration. “Ian, he’s either a hundred percent gay, a hundred percent taken, or worse—zero percent interested because he _didn’t even look at me_. You’re gay and you would totally bang me. You said so yourself. He. Didn’t. Even. Look. That is impossible. Im-po-ssi-ble! I mean, look at me, come on! There’s no way that—s” Whatever she plans to say next gets swallowed by the buzz, signaling a passenger calling.

Since it’s first class, they both glass at the side panel to see C1’s light on.

“I’ll get it,” Ian volunteers. “Thanks for trying though, Carmen. I’ll take it from here.”

He walks the short distance from the cabin to Mickey’s seat, feeling somewhat unsure of himself. It’s been a long time since he felt this kind of nervous energy just because of a hot guy he doesn’t even know. Still, Ian tries to keep things professional from here on out. Maybe Mickey is some sort of anomaly that’s going to Hawaii for _just_ business afterall.

Ian flashes his best million-dollar smile. “Yes, sir, what can I do for you? Anything the problem?” Damn it, he’s getting tongue-tied. “I meant; is there a problem?”

Mickey closes his phone. For a second, Ian eyes the short fingers moving over the device. It takes him another second to realize that Mickey is _looking at him_. A dozen butterflies wreak havoc in his stomach. It feels like his insides are playing tag-you’re-it.

“Where’s the chick?” He asks, single eyebrow arching up.

Heat rises up Ian’s cheeks. Of course, _of course,_ Mickey is straight as a baseball bat. Young gorgeous people like him couldn’t possibility rob future generations of his genes. That would be high treason to mankind. Men like Mickey are meant to procreate and breed the beautiful kids of tomorrow, and not waste that all away for some Southside kid like Ian.

“I, uh,” he says, mentally battling with disappointment, “I’m sorry. I can, uh, uhm—she’s in the back. I’ll get her.”

Mickey’s hand shoots out, fingers encircling Ian’s wrist before the redhead could make his escape.

“Huh, what?” Ian asks, dumbfounded. Then, just as quickly, Mickey snatches his hand back. Maybe, Ian just imagined the whole hand-grabbing encounter. He should really check his meds. “So, uh,” his mouth runs on autopilot, “you... _didn’t_ want me to get Carmen?”

Mickey’s face contorts. He scrunched his nose, twists his mouth, and closes his eyes. A hand comes up to wipe a palm over his entire façade.  “You really think I’d order an overpriced bottle of Moscato because I’m fuckin’ thirsty? Then, have some busty brunette come here to serve it to me instead? Really, Ian, you slow or just an idiot?”

“Oh,” Ian says stupidly, “ _oh_!” A grin splits his face in half.

Mickey snorts into his glass. He makes even that look sexy. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he swallows.

Ian wants to take a bite out of it.

“We’ve got a—” He checks to see that the woman in A1 is still soundly sleeping with her headphones on, “—lavatory’s free…?”

Mickey grins a tooth lopsided grin. “Let me grab the supplies. I’ll meet you in ten.”

Ian tries very hard not to run all the way to the lavatory. Carmen eyes him briefly from the attendant’s area. He just winks at her. The inside of the first-class lavatory is exactly the same as the economy class. Passengers paid for their seat-amenities, their food, and their comfort but not the commons areas like this. Ian’s a talk guy. He doubts for a second how he and Mickey are going to fit inside. He doesn’t have too much time to think though.

True to his word, Mickey slips inside the lavatory a few minutes later with a small black pouch trapped under his armpit—a toiletry kit. His eyebrows to the talking for him as he hands the kit to Ian. They don’t even kiss. Mickey, for all that he looks all business-like and professional, gets down to it—dropping his unbuckling his pants and _folds it_.

“Make sure that shit, don’ wrinkle,” he orders Ian before turning back around to hold the door.

Jesus. Mary. Joseph. And, all the angels in saints.

Ian would write gospels about the marvelous round flesh known as Mickey Milkovich’s ass. If only they had more space, he would go down on his knees and lick that pert bottom open for him. They’re limited by the space though. He opts for the next best option. Placing the pants in a concealed overhead storage space, he lines his body behind Mickey’s until they’re aligned from shoulders to knees. Mickey’s scent arouses him until anything he’s ever scented.

“Yeah,” Mickey breathes back, tilting his head just a little.

Ian’s mesmerized by his profile—the round cheeks, sharp nose, and long eyelashes take Ian’s breath away. “You’re beautiful,” he lets himself say because Mickey _is_ a thing worthy of Michelangelo’s sculptures. That sort of beauty should be preserved in Marble—the way Mickey’s pale flesh ripples underneath the perfectly fitted dress shirt, which ends just above the center of his ass-cheeks. It’s obscene.

“Spread your legs,” Ian orders, pushing Mickey’s thighs apart with his hands. The skin under his palms feel silky smooth on the insides while the outside it rough with coarse hair. This part is one thing he loves about bedding men—or maybe just Mickey in general. He loves the contrast of flesh and hair, of the soft whimpers with the deep groans, and the scent of Mickey that’s coming off in waves.

Mickey owns the expensive kind of lube. It’s in a small bottle but Ian knows it’s not the kind of lube from the drug-store. Even with so little, his fingers slide against each other smoothly. He dips them to the valley of Mickey’s crack. They’re warm from his rubbing. Mickey’s breath hitches as Ian slides deeper and deeper between the cheeks.

“You love this,” Ian muses fondly, voice not sounding like his own. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a bottom boy.”

Mickey snaps his hips back, startling Ian. Long fingers momentarily slip inside the furl. “I fucking like what I like.”

Damn. That deep husky voice sends Ian’s arousal into a boil. His pants are already too tight—cock threatening to burst the seams of his uniform. No doubt, if he checks, there’ll be a mess in his boxer that he’s rather not think about right now. He focuses first on Mickey. This may be his one and only chance to bed the elusive black-haired stranger, and he wants Mickey to remember every second of it.

He wants Mickey to remember him.

“Come on,” Mickey urges, but it’s not desperate—not yet. He licks his lips and it looks like a near thing.

Ian plans to take all the time he can squeeze before they’re found out. His slick fingers press into Mickey’s hole, slow and steady. He’s not normally known for his preparation but, for some reason, he wants this to last. He’ll pull every type of sound he can from the other man. All that will go into special memory vault that he’s order his brain to make. If this is the only chance he’ll get, he’ll use it to leave his mark.

“Ian, _fuck_ , come _on_!” Mickey hits his head on the lavatory door. His fingers go white-knuckle against the flat surface. “Get. On. Me!” He’s a demanding little shit and Ian love it. That raw bossiness gets him going, reminding him an awful lot about the thugs back home.

“No,” Ian argues back, pressing Mickey flat against the door “Not yet.” He has a good idea of how the position presses Mickey’s cock into the unrelenting metal. Claw scratches indicate Mickey’s fingers curling from where they’re held. A glance up lets Ian see the smudged marks on Mickey’s knuckles. He can’t read them while upside down.

Mickey pushes back his ass.

Ian’s finger accidentally slips in.

Mickey moans like he’s just seen heaven. It’s loud, and resonating—loud enough for poor Carmen to be hearing it from the attendant’s area.

“Shhh!” Ian leans in again, lips to Mickey’s ear. “Shut up or they’ll hear you.”

Mickey doesn’t care the slightest. “Cabin’s fuckin’ empty, Firecrotch.” He meets Ian’s eyes over his shoulder. Out of nowhere, his hand hits the back of Ian’s neck and reels the redhead in. The kiss is sloppy and uncoordinated. Their position of chest-to-back creates an awkward angle, and yet it just may be the most knee-weakening kiss in Ian’s life. It’s either that or he can blame the air turbulence.

“You gonna fuck me, or what? Junior down here’s already poking my thigh.”

Ian growls, and this time he’s the one pulling Mickey in for a kiss. It’s partially because he cannot get enough of tasting Mickey’s mouth, and another part’s because he pushes a second finger inside the brunette. He stifles the loud moan with his lips. This is still his job. He can’t get caught screwing around. That breaks all sorts of airline conduct guidelines.

Mickey, the bastard, bangs his hand on the lavatory sink. “Now, Firecrotch, or I’m leaving you here and tugging it out under the blankets in my seat.”

Ian cannot take that risk. He’s just two-fingers deep, but he guesses that it’ll be enough. Mickey’s a demanding little shit. Ian can’t resist him. Ian gropes around over Mickey’s chest and tugs the tie. He pulls the dark blue fabric where it’s trapped then shove it into Mickey’s mouth. “Bite.”

Mickey looks like he’s about to retort. Ian uses that exact moment to push his cock into Mickey’s sweet hole. He thinks that he was right all along—it’s not nearly loose enough for his girth and his length. Mickey’s eyes grow wide then shut close tightly. Ian’s not a sadist. He goes in slow, inch by agonizing inch until his highs hits Mickey’s. By then, they’re aligned and connected. He feels every bit of Mickey pulsing over his nine-inch cock.

“Jesus, fuck,” he moans, leaning his forehead between Mickey’s shoulders. “Motherfucking _tight_.”

Stopping—even just for a quick while—lets the heat finally register. Even in high altitude, a small space with this much movement jostles molecules to go haywire. It’s a few degrees lower than the outside. Sweat beads from the back of Ian’s neck down to his nape. Mickey is pretty much the same. Ian watches a droplet form then slide down. He catches it with his mouth before it reaches the white collar.

Saltiness meets his tongue. Like a drug, he cannot get enough.

Mickey’s whole body buzzes beneath him. Ian goes for his ears first. He laps at the one nearest him. It’s smooth on his tongue and tastes—well, like Mickey. No words could describe the addicting flavor. One of his hands snake between Mickey and the door. Dampness has already soaked through the front help of the white dress shirt. The very tip of his finger touches the leaking tip of Mickey’s cock.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

“Yeah,” Ian whispers back, nose buried in Mickey’s neck. Everything is abuzz. Mickey clings onto the door like a lifeline and Ian holds onto him like he’s never wants to let go. Their scents mingle into one inside the cramped airplane lavatory. It’s visceral. Ian greedily wants more. It comes from the very core of his nature, inside every cell, entwined with every fiber of his being. It’s just Mickey and him joined together for one perfect moment—it’s earth-shattering.

In their case, however, it’s more than that.

“Ian!” Mickey says urgently, as he tries to push Ian back. Ian stubbornly holds on. “Ian, you fucker, the plane!”

Sex-drenched and horny-as-fuck, Ian takes a full minute to realize that the shaking wasn’t just them but the whole plane in turbulence. He instinctively looks up and sees the _fasten seatbelt_ sign lighted on the lavatory door. They must be going through opposing wind current and it’s shaking the plane.

“Shit. Shit. Shit.”

The doors of the lavatory shake. Wind hits the sides of the tube with a thunderous sound.

“The fuck we gon’ do?!” Mickey asks from over his shoulder. “Your fucking dick is in my ass. We can’ fucking go outside!”

Ian does what he thinks is best to do. He flicks the lavatory bowl shut the hurriedly sits on top of it, dragging Mickey down with him. Mickey’s thighs fit snugly over his, pressed against the sides of the small compartment. The walls and cabinets tremble. Ian wraps a hand around Mickey’s waist an holds on for dear life. Mickey clutches as his arms so tight that Ian knows a few finger-shaped marks will mar his skin tomorrow.

They’ve both gone soft by the time the shakes subside.

Mickey’s still sitting on top of Ian. At the moment that he stands up, Ian’s limp dick will slip right out. It’s quite obvious why Ian doesn’t want to move yet. Seems as though it’s the same for Mickey too. The reluctance to part lingers between them. But, they have to move eventually. It’s another four hours until Honolulu, and the cold lavatory seat isn’t exactly the most comfortable thing in the world.

“So, uh…” Ian starts it because his ass is starting to freeze.

Mickey leans back, pecks him on the lips. “I’ve got a beach house. Ditch the cheap hotel and stay with me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Knock. Knock. Hey, Gallavich shippers, say something nice in the comments, won't ya? Please? I love reading them. 
> 
> If you have a prompt or an idea, you can [INSPIRE ME](http://arh581958.tumblr.com/submit) on tumblr. Or [TALK TO ME](http://arh581958.tumblr.com/ask)~
> 
> As always, **kudos/comments/bookmarks** are all appreciated by this author. I take comments as extra-kudos and I _do_ read the bookmark tags (some are really fun).


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